


Rough Crossing

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge Response, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person Limited, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:15:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Fraser gets seasick.   (Episode tag of sorts for <i>Mountie on the Bounty</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough Crossing

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted for the "comfort" challenge (Amnesty edition) at [fan-flashworks.](http://fan-flashworks.livejournal.com) Also fulfills the "motion sickness" prompt on my [](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/)**hc_bingo** card (which has *three* nausea-related prompts on it, I'm just saying...).

It had been a really long day—a really long couple of days, actually, what with investigating the dead lake-pirate, and the all-night drive to Sault Ste. Marie, and the not-actually-ghost ship, and the almost-drowning, and the crazy running around on boats saving the day, and then last but not at all least, Ray and Fraser making up and agreeing to stay partners.  Ray ought to have been falling-down tired, and he figured he probably _would_ fall over as soon as he wound down some.  But right this moment, sailing for home with the sun on his face and his best buddy at his side, he was wired and flying high. 

And then— _woah!_ —for a second he was literally flying, or at least, the wooden ship under his feet was.  It leapt up and plunged back down like a bucking bronco. 

There were some shouts from the Mounties in the rigging and on deck: something about the wind picking up or whatever, Ray wasn’t really paying attention.  He figured they had it under control, and it wasn’t like there was anything he could do to help keep the damned boat from sinking.  But no one was screaming _all hands to the lifeboats!_ or anything; those were cheerful business-as-usual voices.  So Ray left the not-sinking to the Canadians, kicked back and enjoyed the ride. 

It was kind of like a little baby roller coaster: a fast, not-quite-predicable series of swoop-and-drops, with sometimes a tilt to the right or left, and the wind in his face made it feel faster than it really was.  He let go of the rail and bent his knees to ride the rolling deck like a skateboard—if the skateboard was maybe inside a moving El train.  A particularly sharp drop nearly shook him off his feet, but he managed to keep his balance, whooping up at the bright sun through a face-full of fresh spray.

He turned to grin at Fraser, but Fraser wasn’t smiling back.  Fraser didn’t look like he was having any fun at all.  He was standing there with his jaw clenched, looking miserable, which, _shit_.  Normally when Fraser was upset, what he looked like was a stiff stuffed shirt.  Even when Ray had _hit_ him, when they both thought their partnership was down the tubes, Fraser had just gone all stony and silent.  So if something was getting to him so bad that he _looked_ that unhappy, well, Ray wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that was.

Still, last Ray had checked, him and Fraser were buddies, so he asked, “Hey, you okay?”

Fraser didn’t answer right away, which made Ray’s stomach twist into a cold knot.  Had he somehow managed to piss Fraser off again?  He couldn’t imagine how; he’d just been standing here minding his own business.  But maybe Fraser had been thinking things over and had decided that a few minutes of being magically in tune on a pirate ship and a couple of not-exactly-apologies just weren’t enough, and he’d really better take that transfer back to Canada after all and—

“It—it’s odd,” said Fraser faintly.

“What?” Ray prompted.

“I don’t—I’m not sure.”  Ray had never heard Fraser sound so unsure, that was for sure.  Never heard him sound. . .weak, like that, either.

“Are you feeling okay?” he repeated, wondering if maybe Fraser had gotten injured in all the chaos of taking down the bad guys and had just not bothered to tell anyone.  That would be just like him.

“I—I’m sure it’s noth—”  As Fraser started to reply, the boat bucked up hard, then dropped back down to meet the lake with a smack Ray could feel all through his body.  He bent his knees and rode it out—he was getting the hang of that now—but he saw Fraser flinch and swallow hard and _holy crap_ , Fraser wasn’t mad or hurt, he must be _seasick._

Pretty hard to believe, but it fit the facts.

“Hey, you feeling sick?” Ray asked.

Fraser blinked at him kind of glassy-eyed and bewildered, and opened his mouth to say something.  Then the boat heaved again, Fraser made a strangled noise, and Ray grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and spun him around just in time to toss his cookies over the side of the ship.  The momentum plus another lurch of the deck made Fraser stagger hard against the rail; Ray clutched the back of his tunic to keep him from pitching into the drink.

They stood like that for what seemed like a really long time, Fraser heaving his guts up and Ray hanging onto him.  Ray turned his face turned away as much as possible, because no one wants an audience while they’re puking.  Plus, even though the wind and the lake got rid of any smell, just the sound was making Ray kind of queasy himself.  It was always the gross stuff that got to him.  He didn’t get motion-sick, even on the wildest roller-coasters, but open wounds and dead bodies and other people throwing up, anything like that turned his stomach.

 _Now Fraser knows how I feel in the damn morgue,_ he thought.  It was a mean, stupid, petty thought, he knew that.  But damnit, just in the past day, Fraser had freed Ray from his own handcuffs, and taught him to swim, and saved his life three or four times in half an hour, including not only buddy-breathing him but doing crazy McGyver tricks with fire-extinguishers.  Then, to top it all off, Mr. Not-legal-to-carry-a-firearm-in-the-U.S. had picked off four damn tricky shots in a row easy as blinking.  So, to suddenly find out that the SuperMountie had a human weakness after all—that there was one goddamned way Ray actually came out _ahead_ of Fraser—who could blame him for feeling a little smug about that?

Except lording it over Fraser, even just in his own head, didn’t feel sweet; it just felt cheap and sad and wrong.  Seeing Fraser down made Ray want to fix everything and make it better, same as always—not that there was a lot he could do to fix this particular problem.

Eventually, Fraser straightened up, drew a couple of deep breaths, and then spat into the water.  He grimaced, which made Ray wince because yeah, barfing was bad enough in the first place, but then the way your mouth tasted afterwards was just insult to injury.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Not really,” Fraser mumbled.  He was still leaning heavily on the rail with both hands, his eyes closed.  He certainly didn’t look too good; his face was pasty-pale and shiny with sweat.

“You want to go lie down somewhere?” Ray asked.  “Or you think you’ll be better off up here in the fresh air?”  Not to mention it’d probably be more pleasant to puke over the rail again if it came to that than into a bucket in some stuffy little cabin. 

Fraser gave a soft grunt, which Ray translated as _I don’t give a damn, just don’t ask me to move right now._

“Okay, you hang tight.  I’ll see if I can find you something to drink.”

As he walked off, he heard another grunt from Fraser, though whether that one meant _right, I’ll stay here,_ or _thank you kindly,_ or _fuck off and let me die in peace,_ Ray couldn’t have said.

Turnbull had a canteen and was more than happy to loan it to Ray.  He was also happy to run interference so that Ray and Fraser could have their “serious discussion” without being it interrupted by rookie Mounties or their batshit-crazy leader or, especially, by Ray’s boss or Fraser’s boss.

“You can count on me,” said Turnbull, tapping the side of his nose and giving Ray what he probably meant to be a conspiratorial wink.

Ray found Fraser right where he’d left him, except now he was on his knees with his head pillowed on his arms, which were resting on the rail.  Ray nudged him gently in the shoulder with the canteen. 

Fraser took it with a faint “Thank you kindly.”  He rinsed his mouth twice, drank a couple of swallows, and then got a look on his face like maybe that had been a mistake and shut his eyes again.

“It usually hit you this bad?” Ray asked, crouching down beside him.  “I mean, you were fine all day. . .”

“Never happened before,” Fraser mumbled.  “I suppose it’s the size of the vessel.  Combined with the turn in the weather.  Not that I have much experience with long sailing voyages.”

“That makes two of us,” Ray said with a wry smile.  “Don’t guess either of us is going to be in a rush to do it again any time soon.  Though this’ll make one hell of a story.”

“Mm,” Fraser agreed. 

“Not this part,” Ray added.  “Just the action-adventure stuff.”

Fraser flickered a glance at him, then gave a little nod.  He didn’t need to say _thank you_ in words; Ray knew what he meant. 

“It’s been a day of. . .novel experiences,” Fraser said.  “Though frankly, I could have. . .done without this one.”

“I bet,” said Ray.  “And you don’t get sick to your stomach all that often normally, do you?  I mean, you eat anything, nothing grosses you out, I’ve never seen you take a sick day. . .”

“First time.”  Fraser leaned his head back against the rail, closing his eyes again.

“You’ve never thrown up before?  Not ever?” Ray asked incredulously, although really, he didn’t know why he was so surprised.

Fraser shook his head.

“Have you ever been sick before, at all?” Ray asked, because now he was curious.  “Like, any kind of sick?”

“Well, I had pinkeye once.  And, of course, I’ve been hospitalized for various injuries over the years. . .”  Fraser’s voice faded until it trailed off completely.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” said Ray.  “I know for a fact you’ve been, what, shot, stabbed, concussed, folded, spindled, mutilated—”

With a muffled groan, Fraser hauled himself to his feet to lean over the rail again.  He didn’t seem to be in any danger of falling this time, so Ray turned his back and took a couple of steps away while Fraser did his thing.  It was over quicker this time, maybe because Fraser didn’t actually have anything left in his stomach to throw up; but Ray knew from experience that that didn’t actually make it any more fun.

“This feels not entirely unlike being shot,” said Fraser as he straightened up.  He rinsed his mouth again.  “Only without the pain.”

Ray nodded.  He’d been shot himself, so he knew what Fraser meant: hot and cold and clammy with sweat, and that dizzy feeling of being down some tunnel separated from the world around you.

“No pain is a definite plus, though,” he pointed out.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Fraser agreed.  Leaning his elbows on the rail, he let his head droop until his face rested in his hands.

Ray hesitated, then reached over and laid his hand between Fraser’s shoulderblades.  He wasn’t sure whether Fraser would want to be touched right now, but Fraser didn’t object, so Ray let his hand rest where it was.  He could feel Fraser breathing soft and shallow, except for every once in a while when he’d take a deliberate deep breath and let it out slow.  Ray rubbed careful little circles on Fraser’s back, and Fraser didn’t seem to mind that, either.

“Does it. . .stop?” asked Fraser faintly after a minute or two.

“Not really,” said Ray apologetically.  He scratched the back of his head.  “And I don’t know if there’s much that’ll make it better.  I mean, there’s Dramamine—seasick pills.  I could ask if anyone’s got some.  But I think that’s only supposed to work if you take it before you feel sick.”

“That ship has sailed, I’m afraid,” said Fraser, with a ghost of his usual deadpan.  Ray gave a surprised snort of laughter.

“Yeah, well.  I could ask.”

Fraser shook his head.

“Well. . .I think you’re supposed to stand in the front of the boat and keep your eyes on the horizon.  Supposedly that helps some.”

“All right.”

Fraser pushed himself off the rail; Ray instinctively took hold of his elbow to steady him.  But when the boat pitched suddenly, making them both stagger, it was Fraser who kept Ray from falling over, his grip on Ray’s arm as strong as ever.  Apparently the inner-ear thing wasn’t fucking with his balance, just his stomach.

Luckily, there was no one up front.  Fraser braced his hands on the rail and fixed his eyes ahead, taking slow, careful breaths.  Ray watched him nervously for a little while.  His footing seemed pretty solid now; no danger that he’d pitch overboard or anything.  But he still looked pale and miserable, groaning under his breath whenever the ship rolled particularly hard.

“Hey, listen, you want me to buzz off ?  Give you some privacy?” Ray offered.

Fraser didn’t answer right away.  Ray figured that for a _yes_ , so he gave Fraser a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and turned to go, but then Fraser said,

“No I—I’d be grateful for some distraction.  If—if you don’t mind.”

“No, sure, it’s cool,” said Ray, making like he wasn’t surprised. 

And it was cool, really.  Okay, so hanging around watching someone toss his cookies was not Ray’s idea of a good time, but if Fraser was willing to admit he needed Ray for something—was willing to ask him to for Christ’s sake be a partner—then Ray would gladly stick out a damn sight worse.  And hey, he’d already nearly drowned today; he could deal with a little grossness, no problem.

So he leaned casually back against the rail and told Fraser about how he’d learned to ride a motorcycle from his friend Ricky Kramer who got a Yamaha their Senior year of high school, and how the two of them spent a lot of weekend days practicing jumps and other tricks down in the abandoned lot behind the closed-down Schwinn factory, and how Ray borrowed the bike to take Stella for a joyride, except when he tried to pull up sharp and tight at the curb, he flipped the damned bike over and scraped the paint to hell, not to mention breaking his wrist. 

That got a weak smile out of Fraser, so Ray dug out all the funny stories he could think of: worst-cop-mistake legends, and crazy shit he’d pulled with his friends in high school, and the time he and Tom Catellini had gotten high and gone streaking at midnight, and the absolute horror show that was his and Stella’s first attempt to cook Thanksgiving Dinner.

And Fraser listened, nodding along and occasionally glancing over at Ray, though mostly he kept his eyes on the horizon, or let them drift shut when he was feeling especially woozy.  Sometimes he’d ask a question or make some little comment, just to let Ray know he was following.  And then every so often he’d hold up a hand to signal _hold the phone_ before bending to dry-heave over the rail.  So Ray would shut up and stare out at the horizon until Fraser rinsed his mouth and gave him a little nod that meant the commercial break was over, at which point Ray would pick up his story where he’d left off.  Bending his friend’s ear about this, that and the other, until the sun slipped down to kiss the lake and the blue sky blushed pink and purple around the edges and the dark mass of the USA rose up out of the water to welcome them home.


End file.
